


poetic declarations (and the bullets that follow)

by Drake



Series: it may not be a millenium yet, but who's counting? [4]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 5+1 Things, BAMF Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Homophobia, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, M/M, Temporary Character Death, the homophobes all die tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25354564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drake/pseuds/Drake
Summary: 5 times Joe's poetic declarations of love get him shot.....and 1 time Nicky's does(Directly inspired by Ghrelt'sEvery Time You Make a Poetic Declaration One of Us Gets Shot, and though you don't need to have read that to read this, you should cause she's great)
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: it may not be a millenium yet, but who's counting? [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829071
Comments: 86
Kudos: 1212





	poetic declarations (and the bullets that follow)

**Author's Note:**

> hehe ghrelt's look at Nicky's pov in the truck made me think this is a very common occurrence for them; and i wanted to see what a reversal might look like
> 
> Also!!! We have a [discord](https://discord.gg/kDJpjxx) for all things old guard! come hang out with us! 
> 
> and a reminder that comments feed me and make me write more <3!

**1412**

Yusuf and Nicolo make for the most unlikely traveling pair. A former Crusader, still carrying his Italian longsword, and a defender of the homeland with his saber, walking arm in arm alongside the caravan. 

It paid well, though. And fed them well, too. All they had to do was defend the spices on the journey to the next middleman, each stop and sale hiking the price just a little more. Sometimes the next seller would hire them on too. Sometimes they’d go back and find a different shipment to guard. It makes for fine enough work, and they get to spend their nights out under the stars, laying together on whatever little hill they can find away from the encampments, ostensibly to keep watch.

But actually, to keep exploring each other. Two hundred years and change and every day they still learned something new about each other. The one thing they already knew, knew to the marrow of their undying bones, was that they meant everything to each other. 

They’ve died, often. At first at each others’ hands. Then at others’. But with each death they get better. At predicting their enemies, at dodging and dancing through the battlefield. At moving  _ with  _ each other. 

But humans were consistent. They were always unpredictable, always finding new ways to surprise them. 

It’s nearing the end of this leg of the journey, at the foothills below the Great Wall, newly built, and they sit around the fire, eating dried meats and drinking from their waterskins.

“You have carried us safely this far,” one of the merchants says, though his smile is off. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Yusuf doesn’t notice, though Nicolo does. 

“We have, and will carry you the rest of the way,” Yusuf reassures, biting off a piece of meat, chewing it as he speaks.

“Is that what your ritual was?”

“What?” Yusuf asks. Nicolo has stopped eating, his hand moving slowly, imperceptibly, toward a weapon.

“That carnal sin you were performing,” he says, and the smile is gone now. 

Yusuf bristles, and Nicolo is ready to move, to lunge into a fight with him. But his other half doesn’t stand. Or grab his sword.

“It is not a  _ sin _ to love,” he snarls, his gaze locked on the merchant’s. “To love and worship the body of my other half, of the man who completes me. Least of all while we risk ourselves to protect  _ you _ .”

Nicolo’s lip pulls upward, caught on him, on the fervor with which he speaks. The way his eyes flash, furious with passion, with the need to make it known how he felt. Nicolo feels his heart beating out of his chest, and all he wants to do is grab him by his robes, pull him in and smash his lips to his.

He doesn’t get the chance. 

The merchant has pulled something from his bag, is pointing it at Yusuf, and when he squeezes it, it’s as if a fire lance has gone off.

When the smoke passes, Nicolo sees Yusuf, laying in the dirt, a hole in his chest where his heart was meant to beat. He doesn’t hear what the merchant said next. Something about demons forsaking God. It doesn’t matter. 

He unsheathes his sword as he spins up to his feet, kicking the fire, throwing burning embers into their faces. And then he leaps across the open space.

They don’t last long.

By the time he’s finished with them, Yusuf is gasping for air, propping himself up on an elbow, groaning something ragged.

“Yusuf,” Nicolo says, softly relieved. He still doesn’t know what to expect. At first, he thought only he couldn’t kill Yusuf. When he found out the man would keep coming back, no matter who attempted to end him, he slept a little easier. But still. They know nothing of their condition.

“What- what was that?” Yusuf asks, dragging a hand over his chest, like he still feels the agony. 

“It sounded like a fire lance. But he held it in one hand.”

“Something new,” Yusuf says, cracking his neck as he sits up, sighing.

“Where did that come from?” Nicolo asks, his lip quirked up. Quiet amusement.

“What, the weapon? I don’t know-”

“No,  _ you _ .”

Yusuf huffs, a little sound almost like a laugh. “What was I going to do, let them keep spouting filth when we are doing them a favor?”

Nicolo shakes his head, but sits by his side and pulls him in for a kiss.

They end up selling the spices as their own and taking the money to head off into the world.

**1501**

Yusuf and Nicolo, now Josef and Nicolo, have made themselves quite a home in Florence. It is not so far from Nicolo’s home of Genoa, and it is a time of the arts. Josef was made for this century. He’s gotten himself a studio in which he spends most of his time painting.

And he has such a lovely subject to study. 

Nicolo is eminently bribeable, and Josef cannot get enough of him. Asking him to simply choose somewhere to sit, to stand, to lay, unclothed, and allow Josef to draw him. To paint him. To bring to life the way the sun kisses his hips, how it outlines his sharp jaw, brings the gold through his hair. 

Sometimes Josef is caught staring, his hand still on the canvas, his expression soft and immeasurably fond. 

Every day with Josef is better than the last, and Nicolo could spend an eternity like this. He’ll lay in any pose Josef likes, if it makes him smile like that, makes him look at him in wonder, takes his breath away with each loving brushstroke.

Of course, it is not so simple. Nothing ever is, for them.

They both remember what happened to Josef’s friend Leonardo, some twenty years ago. They have been careful. Josef disperses his paintings in places they won’t be found, where he can retrieve them someday in the future.

He simply forgets to take the latest batch, when the city guards come by to collect taxes. And they don’t like what they see.

“Wait- wait, I have the money-” Josef protests, his Italian long-since perfected, as they grab him and drag him forth from the shop. 

How many years has it been, since he had carried his scimitar on his back? He’d grown complacent, here.

“We don’t want your money, sodomite. We want your head,” the guard snarls, wrestling his arms back behind him.

Josef doesn’t see Nicolo, he doesn’t hear him, either. Did they grab him while he was busy at the front door?

He could protest they have no proof. But that is not Josef. 

“What do you know of it?” he asks, his lip curled in anger. “If God took issue with the purity of my love, he’d have smitten me long ago,” he says, his chin up and his shoulders back. This is a certainty. If either of their Gods saw them as a disgrace, a smear upon humanity, they’d have been struck from the Earth. But here they stand, and here they live, in each others’ arms, side by side. One as much a part of the other, as themselves. 

“If God wants you to continue to exist, he’ll need to intervene,” the guard sneers, kicking the back of his legs to bring him down to his knees.

“He doesn’t need to.”

Nicolo’s voice is soft. Dangerous. It is all the warning they get, before one guard is missing his hand. The next, his head. The last moves fast enough to lift his gun and shoot, the iron slicing through Nicolo’s side and embedding into Josef’s shoulder, just missing an artery. Nicoclo makes it hurt - or at least, Josef thinks he does. He hears the guard gurgle on the flagstone, though he’s staring up at the sky, dazed from the pain.

And then he’s staring up at Nicolo, watching his sharp blue eyes flit from the blood soaking his shirt to his face, to make sure he isn’t losing him. 

His love reaches down, and Josef grasps his forearm, letting himself be pulled upright, his legs falling open as he sits out in the street. He doesn’t hear the gasps, the shrieks at the sight of the dead guards.

“I suppose it is time we move on,” he says, a little ruefully.

Nicolo sighs fondly. “You could have attempted any excuse,” he points out.

Josef shakes his head. “I will never be ashamed of loving you.”

How was Josef so able to make his head spin with just a handful of words?

**1656**

This time, they are on business. Andromache - Andromeda, last they saw her - was off hunting, but sent them here. She needed her space to recover. So they go to India, currently under the control of the English, and they task themselves with freeing every slave they can. There are far too many for only the two of them to manage alone. Even if they spent the next century here, all of the ones they’d set out to help would have died by then. 

But they do what they can. Nicholas and Josef, that was. 

It takes a number of years before the rumors spread, before they become fugitives. Unfortunately, their countenances are quite striking, even among the numerous British. But they don’t stop.

Until they try to free a man from his debt, and he calls the British police on them. They don’t realize it’s happened, until the wooden doors of the shop clang shut, and something is dislodged - a barrel - falling onto their heads and knocking the both of them out cold.

When they wake up next, it’s the two of them who are in chains. Their swords are missing, the guns they’d bought, vanished. Josef cares less about those than he does about their swords. They’ve carried them since they met and killed each other with them, and he’ll be damned if he lets anyone take them from him. From Nicholas. 

They’re chained to two poles, ten paces apart from each other, arms bent back uncomfortably.

“Where- are we?” Josef asks, looking around. It’s dark, though he can see sunlight poking through the holes in the wood. 

Nicholas shakes his head. “I don’t know. It smells of the marketplace,” he says.

“Do you think they’ll kill us?” Josef asks, mostly to pass the time as he takes in their surroundings, wondering what they can use to escape. Their best opportunity might just be when their captors try to move them. 

“Likely,” Nicky says, though his expression is dark as the word leaves his lips. 

“If we don’t kill them first,” Josef points out, smiling crooked. It seems to help lift a weight from Nicholas’ shoulders. Good. He was hoping it would.

Two men stride through the doors, the sunlight making both Josef and Nicholas turn away until their eyes adjust.

“ _ These _ are the fugitives?” the second man, armored and armed, asks.

“Yes, sir. They’ve been setting slaves free up and down the coast,” the younger, the soldier, replies.

“What are you, his slave?” the man asks, kicking Nicholas’ shin. “Pathetic. What other reason would you have to turn on your own kind?”

Nicholas doesn’t look up at him, and Josef almost misses the fury burning in his gaze. He’s a little preoccupied, himself.

“Nicholas is not my  _ slave _ .” He also misses the way Nicholas’s head snaps up, the expression half pained, half exasperated fondness. Josef continues, “he is the love of my lives, and the  _ stupidity _ that makes you incapable of seeing that is the very same that leads you to commit atrocities. He is kinder than any man has ever known, and you do not deserve to be in his presence-” he’s interrupted by a boot to the chest, and while he coughs for breath, another strikes his head.

He hears the rattle of chains - or is that the ringing in his ears? - and sees Nicholas moving. Sees the young soldier straining to hold him back. When did Nicholas become unchained from the pole?

Josef tries to stand, too, but he can’t quite manage it. The chain too short at his hands. So he does the next best thing, sweeping his leg out and pulling down the man in charge, hard. His helmet clangs against the floor, and Josef strains against the chains. 

When he looks up again, Nicholas has his arms in front of him, and the soldier’s neck in the crook of his elbow, squeezing the life out of him.

“Stop!” The man - general, Josef sees now, recognizing the status of his uniform - snarls. He pulls a revolver, aims it at Nicholas. 

“No-!” he kicks again, lashing as hard as he can, and feels the general’s ribs give way under his boot.

And then he knows nothing.

When Joe wakes again, it feels as if his entire chest has caved in. His head drooping forward, but- no. There’s warmth, there. The callouses he knows so well, holding his cheeks, Nicholas’ forehead pressed to his.

“Are you with me, love?” Nicholas murmurs, the ghost of his breath dancing across Josef’s beard.

“Yes- yes, I am here,” he reassures, as best he can. His voice doesn’t crack from the fading pain, at least.

“Let me get you out of those chains,” Nicholas says, pressing a kiss to his forehead before leaning back and pulling away. Josef sees the soldier, laying unbloodied on the floor, and the general, who is very much  _ more _ bloodied. His brains have fanned out across the flagstone.

_ Good, _ Josef idly thinks, as Nicholas retrieves the keys from the man’s breastpocket.

“I suppose we were bound to be caught eventually,” Josef says, groaning as Nicholas frees his arms, rolling his shoulders to encourage them to sit in the right place again.

“Perhaps,” Nicholas replies simply. In all these years, his faith that everything had a purpose had not been shaken. He still firmly believed it, and, it seemed, always would.

**1723**

The New World is full of promise, but Nicholas and Josef know better.  _ Andromeda _ knows better. They see the stink of corruption and greed beneath it, and the slaughter of a people whose only crime was living on the land before them. 

They travel up and down the lines of the colonies, helping the native peoples here keep back the spread. At least when the confrontations turn bloody. They cannot help when a party sells their land, though Andromeda helps in translation.

But no, they are best suited for the battlefield. 

So they often find themselves in territory wars, fighting to push back the colonists who seem incapable of  _ stopping _ , of being content with the fertile land they already have. Who continue to spurn the kindness of the peoples here, who try to raze their villages. 

They lose about as often as they win, but they make the colonists pay dearly for every area of land they take.

They can’t be everywhere, though. And even when they are in the thick of it, at the front of the battle lines, when one of them dies, it takes  _ time _ to come back. Precious time that sometimes changes the course of the whole battle. 

Or leaves them adrift.

The last thing Nicholas remembers is being shot, and then speared through with a bayonet, and shoved off the hill, the cliff, into the water. The roar of his heartbeat and the gunfire in his ears drowned out everything else.

When he wakes up, he wakes up to Josef hovering over him. His head is in his lap, and they’re moving. On a carriage? “Where-” he rasps, his voice rough from the water.

“Colonists have us. They saw us healing as I pulled you from the river.” They saw somewhat more than that, too. 

“Andromeda-?”

“I don’t know. I jumped off the cliff after you,” Josef says, with a little smile. It doesn’t quite reach their eyes. They’re all afraid of dying to water. To being dragged under and  _ held _ under like-

Nicholas just huffs softly, the corner of his lip pulling up in the smallest smile. The kind Josef has long learned to read, to spot as that eternal fondness he has. 

“How many times did they kill us to get us here?” Nicholas asks, after a little longer.

“Oh, a good handful.” Josef’s hands cup his cheeks, and Nicholas can feel the weight of the chain between them resting on his neck. 

“Ah, so fire, next?”

“Likely,” he answers, leaning down to kiss him.

Nicholas laughs against his lips. “Why haven’t we jumped out the back?”

“We tried that once. Got run over, by horse and carriage. I’d prefer not to do it again,” Josef says, against his lips.

“Fair enough,” Nicholas laughs, laying back. This is temporary. And they are far enough from the coast that they have little to worry about in terms of what the colonists might attempt to do to kill them permanently.

Andromeda will find them, soon enough. When they don’t make it back to her after the battle. She’ll know something went wrong and come for them. She always does, just as they do for her. 

The ride isn’t too much longer, before they wheel into a temporary encampment, and they can hear the sound of the wounded who hadn’t yet died being unloaded, carried to tents to be taken care of.

Nicholas sits up, aware that if the colonists find them like this, they’ll just make life - and death - all the harder on them. Josef doesn’t tell him that they’d already seen more. Just sits by him, twisting the shackles on his wrists. Marveling a little, at how no matter how much time passed, humanity was consistent in one thing, at least. Always iterating upon how they chained other human beings.

The torches bring light to the carriage, and the both of them simply look up. Unimpressed. Uninterested. It is not as if these men will be so creative as to find a new way to kill them. 

It’s been a long time since that’s happened. 

“There they are. Drag them out so our men can see just who tried to kill them,” the general snarls.

Josef laughs. “Tried? We did a pretty good job of it,” he says, as the hands grab him by the shoulders and drag him forward and out of the wagon. Two other men do the same to Nicholas.

“You’ve done that, and more,” the general snarls. “I don’t even have to ship you back to the cities to sentence you.”

“For what. Aren’t you so righteous as to take slaves instead of killing your captured?” Josef’s voice is harsh, though he glances over to make sure they haven’t taken Nicholas away from him. Kept him far. 

“You godless heathens don’t deserve to feel the sun’s light another time,” the general retorts. 

Nicholas doesn’t speak, but Josef hears the exhale beside him. He’s certain he’s rolling his eyes, too. 

“And what makes us so godless?” Josef asks, the fury clear in the way his arms bunch, attempting to shake off the men shoving him down to his knees. “The fact that we fight against you? That we stand against your cruelty and tyranny? Or that we love? That we are complete in a way you could never  _ dream _ to be?” 

The fervor with which he speaks never fails to mesmerize Nicholas. To pull him in, to shrink the whole world down around them until all he hears is the melody of Josef’s voice. 

“I did not say you could  _ speak _ ,” the general snarls.

“I did not ask your permission.” Josef’s voice is cold, an icy burn that is so unlike the man born from the desert. 

Josef is about to continue speaking, but the general has pulled a handgun, and Nicholas is trying to shove off the men holding him but he doesn’t move fast enough.

The single shot is loud enough to startle the forest into movement, a flock of birds screeching as they take off. Nicholas doesn't hear it, breathing shakily, before he surges again, shoving off one soldier and grabbing the other, wrapping the chains between his hands around the man’s neck. 

Josef wakes to fire, and chaos, and the smell of burnt flesh.

But Nicholas is there, standing over him, firing a musket with deadly accuracy and ducking down to reload as he needs to. 

Nicholas is always there, by him. It’s all he needs.

**1876**

Europe does not know peace. Europe is  _ shit _ at peace. Especially these days. These years. There’s been one war after another, and they’re actually trying to just pull themselves together again when they end up in the middle of an uprising in Bulgaria. 

Their newest addition is still new, and they’re all a little protective over him still, even though he’s just as immortal as they are. 

It’s the only reason Joe gets caught, dragging Booker out of the way of a cavalry charge, and getting a spear in the back for the trouble. They drag him along as they ride, and that’s  _ worse _ than just getting trampled, because it  _ hurts _ but not bad enough to kill him. 

The Turks throw him in among the other captured Bulgarians, and he doesn’t heal for a good hour. His bones slowly cracking back into place. He doesn’t remember what happened to Nicholas. But he’s not here.

It doesn’t stay that way for long. 

The uprising was doomed from the start. It doesn’t even last a month. Joe is imprisoned for less than half of that when they bring Nicholas in. He looks worse than Joe did. He’s in the cell across from him, and it feels like the yawning distance of the battlefield upon which they met. 

“Nicholas,” he breathes, pressing up against the bars to look at him. “Nicholas, love, are you okay?”

Nicholas laughs, a wet, bloody thing, but he drags himself up to sit. He manages that, which means it can’t be so awful. He must be healing already, despite the blood that soaks his clothing. “I’m here,” he answers, his voice low and rough. 

“What happened? What’s happening out there?” Andrea and Sebastien weren’t dragged in, that he saw, at least, so maybe they’re still out there fighting. 

Nicholas shakes his head. “It’s not going well. They grow more vicious every day.” 

“Shit,” Joe hisses. “They’re going to lose, aren’t they?”

Nicholas sighs. “Yes. And soon.” They’ve lost more than one war. They know the signs. And with two of them now unable to help change the course, it was all but a certainty. 

“Shit.  _ Fuck _ !” Joe resorts to a string of curses in a long-dead dialect, kicking the cell bars. 

“She saw them drag me off,” Nicholas says softly, when he’s trailed off in his fury. “They’ll come for us soon.”

“It is not us I am worried about,” Joe says quietly. Looking down along the rest of the cells. Out of everyone, they will walk out of this. All of these people? They would likely not. 

“I know.”

Joe just wishes he could have his arms around him. To be wrapped up in him, with him. He won’t let go of him for at least a decade, after this. 

Nicholas keeps him calm in the way that he always does. The way he knows best. Keeps talking to him, warm reminders of better times. Places they should visit again. And defile again. 

Joe is laughing, the ache in his chest eased by his love, when he hears the boots stop outside his cell.

“And what are you two eşcinsels laughing about?” the man snarls.

Nicholas knows enough Turkish to know what that means. 

So does Joe. 

“What, do you have a problem with your prisoners finding joy in these decrepit cells? That I may laugh to the words sweet as honey that my love graces me with? That my world is far enough that I cannot touch him, but I may find comfort in his voice, in his wit?” If the soldier was but one foot closer, he could grab him, drag him in and kill him where he stood. But he is just beyond arm’s reach. 

“I’ll show you misery,” the man snarls, and Nicholas surges to his feet, trying to grab him through the bars. He manages to snag a hand in his shirt, but it pulls the wrong shoulder back, and the soldier gets three shots off before Nicholas has his arm wrenched behind him and another arm around his neck. 

Josef wakes to the sound of keys opening the cell, groaning as the bullets push out of his skin and onto the stone floor.

“Joe,” Nicholas says, exasperated, but fond. “Must you always say such beautiful things when we are in the thick of danger?” he asks, giving him a hand up. 

“Is that you asking me to say them more often out of it, too?” Joe asks, smiling crooked as he’s hauled up to his feet, stepping in to kiss him.

Nicholas laughs against his lips. Of course he took it to mean that. It gets him shot, every time, and he still does it again. Tells the world and anyone who would dare look down upon them exactly how much Nicholas meant to him. Unashamed, unafraid. He loved him so dearly for it. He just wished he didn’t have to die every time.

**1924**

Laws have never been much of a consideration for any of them. Least of all  _ stupid _ laws. Nicky enjoyed betting, gambling, playing the stakes and risking it all - though it was never really  _ all _ . And because it was illegal, it meant all the circles that  _ did _ gamble were close-knit. Closer than the ones that passed around alcohol, though they tended to happen in the same place. 

Which is how Nicky and Joe find themselves in a speakeasy, in one of the quiet, dim back rooms, the air full of smoke. Nicky is good at these games, he always has been - except against Andy, but she had an unfair advantage to the tune of five thousand years - and the pile of money and a couple of valuable belongings sits squarely in front of him. 

The men sitting around the table have started to suspect something is amiss, though they can’t tell what. 

Joe knows this is because he isn’t cheating. But they’d never believe that, not with how successful he’s been tonight, and the past few weeks they’d been frequenting this place.

He brings Nicky a glass of moonshine; this place had fairly good alcohol, all things considered, leaning over his shoulder to put it in front of him, draping himself over his love for just a moment. The barest touch, careful intimacy hidden in plain sight.

Except it is seen - for the wrong reason.

“You cheat! Stop using your boytoy to steal our money,” the man across the table snarls, standing and slamming a fist onto the wood.

Joe is about to react, the way he always does, but Nicky is faster. Nicky always was faster.

“Watch your tongue. He’s not my ‘boytoy’.” His arm reaches back, curling over Joe’s bicep. He grips tightly, the strength of that hold the only thing that demonstrates his anger. “This man is more important to me than you will be to anyone in your pitiful life. He is the reason I wake and the reason I have faith in the purpose of this world. There are no words to express what he means to me.”

Joe is stunned, his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering heavy against Nicky’s back. Nicky did not- Nicky was not the kind to express his love so vocally. So publicly. Nicky did it in other ways, ways that sang straight to Joe’s core. But this- he is just as stunned as the rest of the men around the table are.

Except the one standing. He has apparently not gotten over the fact that he lost his gold watch in the last round.

His hand snaps back, pulling a gun from his holster, and Nicky is only slower because his hand was on Joe’s arm. The man shoots, once, twice, three times, and Nicky falls backward into Joe’s arms, dead.

He sees nothing. Knows nothing, but that Nicky’s gun is suddenly in his hand and the man across from him is dead and the others have fallen out of their chairs in their hurry to get away. 

Joe puts Nicky’s gun in his waistband, shifting to hold him until he could come back to him.

The bartender simply stares, at the man who held his dead lover and did not seem to mourn. 

Nicky does not keep him waiting long. He gasps awake, lurching in Joe’s arms, groaning, with the pain of being alive. “Is that what this feels like?” he asks, his voice rough as the wounds heal, one by one.

“Is what-?” Joe doesn’t need to ask the rest of the question, figuring it out, and he just exhales relieved. 

Joe pulls Nicky in and kisses him hard enough to feel the ground shift underneath him, the world righting itself as his love kisses him back, warm and whole against him. Held safe in his arms.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> eşcinsels, unless i fuked up my research, means 'gay man' in turkish. Or just gay person? it was a little unclear
> 
> I think there's something really fucking brave about standing up to the people who want you dead and suffering for loving who you love, and every _single_ time, without fail, telling them just where they can stick it and rubbing your gay love in their faces, even if it means they kill you. And then them ending up dead shortly after. And I think Joe is as incapable of stopping doing that as Nicky is incapable of not loving him.


End file.
